In My Own Words – Page 19 – The Poems of David Garlick

Angela, I will remember you.

Shadows of palm fronds on your face.

The sound of surf on the beach

and stones chattering on the shore.

I will remember with love

the touch of your hand.

Fragrance of frangipani

heavy air and moonlight.

I remember music and dancing.

Light flashing in your eyes and joy.

You were old but still young.

I loved you as the mother, lost long ago.

David Garlick, Puerto Vallarta, March, 1999

I often think about the tears

which flare behind my eyes.

Not for hurts, real or imagined,

but rather for events in life which

happen as time sweeps by,

moments of emotion.

Since youth I have fought this sting,

fearing the scorn of other boys.

The sneers and taunts that rain

upon the sensitive,

the scalding shame of tears.

Why do joyous births of

unrelated children or the

untimely deaths of people,

cause such instant pain?

How can a puppy or kitten

touch our hearts or

blind our eyes, so easily?

Is there no defense,

no stiff upper lip response,

to cope with all this joy

or indeed, sadness.

Is there something wrong –

with me, perhaps?

Or is there a deeper

understanding, not felt by all.

A detriment, no.

A privilege.

David Garlick, Sidney, January, 2008

The ugly “clomes” of England, seem to slouch a bit,

with horrid little garages, in which a car wont fit, –

because its full of all the stuff you love but have no room

to hang, to place, or to enjoy the oppressive gathering gloom.

They’re built of brick and matching tile, so all may look the same,

In Close and Park and Avenue or Crescent, Mews and Lane.

They’re built this way, to house the hordes, which need a pace to be

But not much thought is given to the, esthetics, candidly.

Some dangerous, with no back doors, some, blind eyed to the views.

Are we wrong to think designers, haven’t any clues?

Come drink a toast to all the folk who build these awful “clomes.”

Then have the nerve to sell them, to us, as modern homes.

David Garlick, Tamworth, Coventry Canal, England, May, 1997

Rows of rows of rows and rows

Grief that poises us upon a precipice,

to dash one down without the joys of flight.

Grief that shakes bent shoulders endlessly,

leaves tattered shadows, deep remorse.

Kind hands or blessed solitude –

to break the chain of dreams and doom.

Remorselessly time moves across the sun,

the soul is sated but still fragile,

waiting for understanding to stem the tide of tears.

Recalling the wealth of happy times stored –

deep within hungry memories.

Soul washing tears; thank thee gentle salve.

We will be whole again,

afloat, once more, upon the sea of life.

David Garlick, Sidney, November, 2007